#and i want to write this long email explaining everything to my field supervisor but i dunno how to do it

[saintsurvivors]

tbd

[mommymooze]

Grand ReOpening

Hubert x Reader 5,613 words

descriptions of violence, possession, Modern AU

You work at the newly remodeled and soon to be reopened Museum of History in Enbarr. A huge fire caused devastating damage to the old building, over half of the structure had to be rebuilt from the ground up. Donations pour in from private collectors in the form of money and items to replace those lost to the flames.

You finish arranging the items in the display finally locking the door on the huge glass case. Some items donated were questionable. Everything in this case is legitimate, you reassure yourself. You have already weeded out the fakes, the near perfect imitations. The director asks you how do you know? You explain to him the materials available for crafting such items, known specifics from inventories found in the locked away historical books, too delicate to be placed upon display. Sometimes you tell him you just have a feeling deep inside based on your experience and knowledge of the period. You can’t tell him the truth.

Whenever you touch one of these items, you close your eyes, the history of the item and its owners flash through your mind. It is easy to bypass the collectors, the ones that shove an item in drawers or hang it on a wall as a decoration for years at a time. The imprint left on the item when it was handled, touched, used is what you are able to see most clearly.

The small silver dagger in the upper left of the case. Its card reads: Dorothea Arnault owned this fine silver dagger. It is small enough to conceal in multiple places upon the body. Perhaps she may have concealed it in the curls of her hair for a ball or tucked it away in her corset or bodice.

They write the cards to romanticize the exhibit. People want a good story, not simply a display of stuffy items from long ago. Who would want to read a card stating she kept this particular dagger tucked into a pocket in her left boot for many years, which is exactly what you saw when you touched it.

Metal rimmed reading glasses belonging to the Imperial Spy Master, Hubert von Vestra. The card: Perhaps he wore them while brewing one of his poisons or when translating encoded messages during the war. Hah. He did not obtain these until fifty years old and mostly wore them when reading a book that struck his fancy prior to retiring for the evening.

Ferdinand von Aegir’s opera glasses. The Card: Fine mother-of-pearl covered opera glasses belonged to the Imperial Prime Minister, Ferdinand von Aegir. He may have used them when going to the Mittlefrank Opera house to watch Dorothea perform. Nope. Mother gave him these when he was but a child. Once he was older, after the war, he purchased a pair that much better suited his face, these were much too small for him as an adult.

Oh my, you’ve lost track of the time again. You scurry out of the building, making certain all doors lock behind you. Making it home just in time to change clothes, freshen up, you head back out for the Museum’s Grand Reopening Gala. Thankfully you are not on the front lines, that is the duty of the Curator, the Directors, those on the board and anyone responsible for schmoozing the rich guests, many who donated to the cause, keeping them happy. You put on your headset and have three laptops at your disposal, ready to answer any questions the staff has regarding particular items on display. You are literally fielding questions left and right. To the left are the searches for the director’s queries, to the right the Curator. In the center you follow on the security monitors where they are standing helping you to identify which particular item they need additional information about. Well past midnight you are finally allowed to leave. Security escorts you to your car and you head home for a well deserved sleep.

Two days later is the Grand Reopening. The tickets sold out three months in advance. The most devoted history fans always line up first to observe and breathe in the milieu. Listening to them mill about the displays, pour over the cases of preciously preserved objects is a joy for you.

“Look, this mirror belonged to the Emperor herself. I wonder what these items could say if they could speak. Did they reflect her face as she finished her makeup before one of the grand balls at the time, I wonder?” You knew the answers to some of their ponderings and could not hide your smirk.

A very tall dark haired male catches your eye. Dark suit jacket, black satin shirt, very nicely tailored. His jet black hair blocks the right side of his face from view. His fine leather gloves barely hover over the display case as he observes the items contained within. It suggests a hint of cosplay? Or perhaps he is attempting to channel the spirit of Lord Vestra? Your eyes sweep about the room regularly, spotting him in several different locations, each time it appears he is studying items that had belonged to the man he resembles. You wish you could see his face more clearly, however his back is turned or someone is in the way. You quietly move towards the end of the circuit the floor plan leads you through, close to the guard by the exit. There are three items of clothing belonging to Hubert this person would probably pause to examine, perhaps you can obtain a good look at his face then.

Finally, you glance through two panes of glass to see the face of the man. There is a strong resemblance to Hubert. Not exact, of course, but the cheek bones were close, the eyes are a similar shade of green. His skin tone is much darker, not nearly as pale. Your attention is taken away as the security guard a few feet from you is asked a question by an older woman.

Your focus is then called in front of you as a polite “Ahem” is noted. Standing directly before you and requesting your notice is none other than the tall dark gentleman that you have been secretively following for the last 30 minutes.

“My apologies. Not to be a bother, but I believe that you work here and would like to ask your opinion about something.” His long slender gloved fingers reach into his breast pocket, pulling out a golden box about the size of a cigarette case, barely a centimeter thick. His thumb activates a button on the case and the lid pops open revealing a dull yet clean looking folded yellowed cloth. The initials H.v.V. are sewn in black thread close to the bottom edge. The cloth is folded in a different manner than it normally lies in order to display the initials on top.

You raise your right hand up to the level of the box which is even with your chin. Touching the material with an index finger you feel the violence connected with the item, fainting straightaway.

You find yourself in the employee’s lounge with two security officers and the strange man. He is seated at a table nearby, you are located pleather covered chaise lounge, reclined. Bolting upright on the lounger, you gather your senses about you. The security officers called for EMT’s to check you out. Fortunately, you were unconscious for maybe a minute or less. You flush bright red and blame it on ‘female issues’. They insist that you remain and be checked out.

“I am terribly sorry. I assisted in bringing you back here and now that I know you are well cared for, I shall excuse myself.” The stranger stands to leave. You reach in your pocket, thrusting your business card toward him. He completes the exchange by handing you his. As he returns to the public areas of the museum the EMT’s arrive and begin their 1,000 questions.

After every possible vital statistic can be taken and recorded, they finally leave you to yourself and the security of the museum. They nod in agreement that it was most likely ‘female issues’ and you should increase your iron intake. Once you finally convince your boss that you are well enough to leave, you get in your car, grab some drive thru dinner and head directly home.

A warm cup of tea, comfortable clothing and your soft couch beneath you, you take a deep breath and begin to relax. You mull over what happened when you touched the handkerchief. That sort of reaction is expected when you touch weapons used in the war, used for self-defense, etcetera. You did not expect that from a handkerchief. The cloth was normally soaked in a strong smelling agent and held over the face of his target. Too early for ether, most likely mandrake root. Normally it would cause the target to quickly become unconscious, occasionally it would cause illness along with and possibly but not always death. One of Hubert’s weapons in the darkness, when silence was required.

You pull out the business card. Vincent H. Vestraegir. Hmmm. Possibly from the line of descendants. You enter his number and name into your phone, then text it.

You: I gave you my card at the museum. Do you still wish to discuss the

item?

Waiting for approximately 20 minutes you hear the notification tone.

V.H.V: Absolutely. Perhaps meet for coffee? Thursday or Saturday?

You: Thursday. Crown Café, 10am, after the morning rush has cleared.

V.H.V: Agreed. See you then.

Working on your day off, as usual. You log onto the Museum’s Employee website to check your email, the top notification is from your supervisor telling you that you will take a few days for yourself. The success of the reopening is greatly due to your hard work and you will take the rest of the week off. See you Saturday.

Well, well, you may get some sleep after all. After a fitful night of restlessness and strange dreams you awaken Thursday morning feeling overtired. It would be in poor taste to cancel the meeting, so you get up, showered and dressed. You decide that since you are doing this basically for free for this man, you have no obligation to him and refuse to dress up. Wearing your hair in a messy pony tail, GMU sweatshirt and jeans you head to the coffee shop a bit early. Hopefully you can get a full cup into you and wake up before he arrives.

You order a coffee double shot and finish it quickly. Bathroom, order new regular coffee, take a seat and it’s 9:50am. In the corner of your eye you see him walking past the café’s front window. This makes you smile, but you are not certain why.

He takes his seat across from you at 9:59am.

“Good morning” you greet him casually.

“Same to you.” He says, placing his phone face down on the table. He wears a long sleeve black turtleneck, fine dress pants, and black gloves.

“Please tell me what history you know of the handkerchief.” You request.

“Skipping pleasantries, straight to business, eh?” His lip curls at the edge of his mouth on the right side. “See if I pick you up off the floor the next time you faint.”

You roll your eyes.

He clears his throat. “There are several items that have been kept within the family. I do not understand the meaning behind them, why they are kept in separate or specific locations within the family residence or what significance they mean to particular members of the family. My family history appears to go through highs and lows, the most recent low is turning around, getting back toward recovery.” He pauses, enjoying his coffee for a moment. “My mother recently passed and I am now in possession of the family estate. I have not had much time to go through the property, my work is my priority. I have no intention of living there and have considered selling it. There are few things I plan on keeping for myself, the rest may go to the museum should you be able to find a use for them. I noticed at the exhibition there were some unusual items on display that I do not normally recall seeing in museum exhibitions.”

Quaffing your coffee, you take a breath. “I am sorry for your loss. The museum is changing its thought process. People are more interested in seeing the everyday life of those from history. The differences are always blown out of proportion, romanticized, too large to be true. The current exhibition is displaying the things of everyday life, to show these were not only persons held in high regard, but also humans with human needs, feelings, emotions. I agree with some of this, however there are personal items that I question if they would really want to have displayed.”

Mr. Vestraegir thinks on these last remarks, savoring the remainder of his caffeinated beverage. “Why are you concerned about the feelings of the dead? It is not as if they can come to you and complain.”

“Let us say this afternoon you are struck dead by lightning. The funeral is held in three days. Open casket. You are dressed in a white tuxedo, no gloves upon your hands. How would you feel about that?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Preposterous!” He blurts out. “I would insist on having gloves on and I have an ample amount of perfectly adequate black dress suits.”

“Why should be concerned with the feelings of the dead again? Why is it that you wear gloves? The weather is certainly warm enough they are not needed. You are extremely familiar with wearing them.”

“Hmm.” He nods in understanding, rubbing one gloved hand upon the other.

“You do have me intrigued. It is difficult to find pieces of history still standing today. It has been hundreds of years.” You wonder aloud.

“The original structure has been incorporated into the current structure. At one point walking through a corridor it feels as if you are stepping backward in time. Quite an unusual feeling.”

“When do you plan on returning there next?” You ask, thinking of your full calendar.

“In the next day or so. I want to go through some things personally prior to the movers bringing the more recently purchased furniture here.”

“I would like to accompany you to the estate. If you like, I can drive us there this afternoon. I need only to pack an overnight bag and a few items for research. My guess is you do not have internet there?”

“No.” He answers. You would have to use your phone. Not all of the house has electric, so you may wish to bring some flashlights or long extension cords as well.

Fantastic, less disturbance to the original structure you ponder. “I can pick you up in an hour if that suits you?”

He nods and it is a blur from there. Rushing home, packing, picking him up at the duplex at the address he provides. Stashing his items in the trunk you are headed to the highway.

Vincent as he prefers to be called, tells you what information he knows of the Vestra Estate. He had lived there for the first years of his youth. He and his father did not get along well and mother abided by fathers wishes. By the time he turns 12 he is sent to boarding school, graduating straight into college. Finishing his degree in law minor in accounting, he is an atty and CPA/Accountant.

There may be a few books at the property that have a bit of history in them, he’s never had much interest.

A brief stop at the store close to the house, you purchase groceries. Simple premade sandwiches, a few frozen dinners, drinks and snacks. As you wait in the car you suddenly realize you have driven far from the city with a perfect stranger, not even leaving a trail of where you are or who you are with. The perfect setting for a murder. How stupid! You quickly drop an email to your landlord, advising of your destination and how long you expect to be gone. You hesitate and do not leave Vincent’s name, that would only lead to more questions from her as she is determined to set you up with a nice bachelor.

Another 30 minutes and your car is pulling into the long driveway, the large house comes into view. He unlocks the door to show you in. He really doesn’t know much of the history of the place, it had never interested him. The two of you unload the car and he has you place your things in his mother’s old bedroom, located in a newer section of the house that has electric and running water. He goes back to the kitchen to work on groceries.

Beds are so personal. You take a breath and complete the touch. Trying to keep your mind focused on the edge of your vision. Fortunately, it is a newer bed and does not take long to complete. You will be fine sleeping here.

Vincent invites you to the more modern kitchen and the location of the food, coffee, and sundried items. He has a few things to attend to, leaving you free rein of the house to explore. He will get to specifics later tonight or in the morning.

He is absolutely correct about the corridor, they had built on to the house in multiple stages. You enter through the most recent and modern additions. The corridor seems to reach back further and further.

You slowly walk down the walls touching each section. Perceiving people passing through the corridors fill your vision, styles of clothing changing as you progress. You touch the doorframe of a small bedroom in an older portion of the house. The faces of the occupants quickly parade before you. You will the flow to slow, a young girl clings to a doll, nodding with tears in her eyes. Then the next owner, a young male perhaps ten years old with hair to his shoulders, citrine eyes. His brows are furrowed, and he is shouting, but you cannot hear what he says, anger written all over his face, his brows furrow deeply as if he argues with someone just behind you. The door appears as he is slamming it shut. Was that Hubert? Could this have been his room, you wonder. The room is decorated with old wallpaper with a feminine print. The coat of dust on the few furnishings reveals that the room has not been used or tended to for many, many years. The curtains on the window are of a thin lace, possibly being held together by the spider webs covering them, the bottom inches shredded threads.

The mantel of the fireplace and baseboards are the only pieces painted. The rest is left to the beauty of the original wood and bricks. Running your hands over the bricks at the edge of the fire box you see countless hands stacking wood, lighting the kindling, flames beginning to burn bright in the small firebox. Finally, you see older gloved hands, incredibly long fingers waving as fire bursts from their fingertips into the kindling. There are gaps until much younger but long spindly fingers cast magic into the wood creating flames.

Touching the firebricks making up the fireplace you reach out to the bottom bricks. On the right, the furthest one back is loose. A bit of maneuvering and you pull the block from its wedged in position. Three bottles lie on their sides. Without thinking you reach in to grab them. Hubert’s face comes into view, laughing with the bottles in hand. These are definitely his poison bottles, contents long dried. His handwriting on the side, coded of course, one is foxglove, the next mandrake and last is nightshade. A small paintbrush is also in the hollowed space. Removing the item provides visions of blades and darts being painted, and then the interior of a teacup.

Diabolical bastard. You admire him and hate him both at the same time. The Empire would not have won the war without him, however you did not need to firsthand witness his secrets. Sitting on the floor you catch your breath. The daylight is fading and you need to go back to your bag and set up lights and a flash light.

The room is different in the too bright halogen light. Rubber gloves in your pockets, in case something more lethal is found are at the ready. You begin touching the floorboards with your bare feet. You will notice if any has a special significance of course. Only after moving the bed and the rug that is beneath it do you find something. (the bed is approximately 300 years old, mostly for children, same with the rug.) A pocketknife blade at a corner edge and the board lifts quite easily. Several items are stashed between the supports for the floor. Gloves on and flashlight in hand you reach in and remove the items, placing them in a large clear plastic bag. You replace the floorboard and return the bed and rug to its normal position.

“Keeping yourself entertained?” Victor chuckles as he enters the room.

“Found a few things. Haven’t had a chance to look them over yet.” You say as you take the halogen lamp to the next room to inspect.

“I can make it easy for you as far as what few things I know.” He offers. “You’ve already been under the floorboard there. Next the master bedroom.” He turns that direction and you follow him with the light, dragging the extension cord behind you. He steps until he hears a hollow spot at a floorboard by the head of the bed, taking out his pocket knife, he lifts the board out of place, then steps back for you to see.

Bringing the flashlight you see a jacknife and several gold coins. You pick them up with your gloves on and place them into a separate plastic bag.

“That is all I know. I found the floorboard when I was much younger, so of course I had to stomp on every floorboard after that listening for hollow sounds.” He grins.

“Quite logical, actually.” You nod. “As a boy I am surprised that you left them here.”

He coughs. “There were more coins, I did leave some.” He looks away, the tips of his ears turning pink.

You both decide to stop searching for the evening. You’ve not had dinner yet and tomorrow is another day. Besides, you want to investigate the floorboard items further as well as show him the items found behind the fireplace.

Dinner is quickly tossed into a microwave, coffee brewed and laptops pulled out onto the kitchen table, connected to the internet via the cell phones. Both of you sit quietly, only forks scraping plates or fingers tapping on keyboards for an hour.

Closing your laptop, you place a soft towel on top and the first bag with the items from the fireplace. Wearing a glove on your right hand you take each item out of the bag, placing them on the towel.

“There were owned and handled by Hubert. I believe them to be bottles of his own poison. The brush is used to paint it upon his weapons, mostly daggers.” You relay to your tablemate.

Vincent’s eyes go wide. “You’ve just seen them. How can you swear to their authenticity?”

“The appearance matches what you would find from the time. The writing on the bottles closely resembles his handwriting from the samples we have at the museum, and the code is correct for three different poison types. The brush appears to be animal hair that would be used at the time, stuffed into the end of a tube and then crimped to hold the hair tight.”

Taking a small box of plastic bags, you pack each item individually. As you reach for the third bottle it tips over and rolls off of your laptop. You grab it with your left hand and read its history. Your eyes focus as Vincent’s fingers are snapping in your face.

“Come on, are you all right?” He questions.

“Um, yes.” You shake your head a bit, placing the item in a bag and back into the larger bag with the other items.

“Are you epileptic? You spaced out there. Please let me know if you have health issues.” Vincent pleads, the concern is heavy in his voice.

“It…it’s hard to explain.” You want to tell him something. You’re never this open with people, but he makes you feel like it is okay to let him know.

“Go on.” He says waiting patiently.

“I can see some things related to a history of an item just by touching it. I see who used it, how long ago it was when used. Yes. I must be crazy.” You nod quickly after your confession.

“I want to see it work.” He frowns, two wrinkles between his eyebrows get deeper. He stands and goes to a drawer, pulling out a large spoon and a knife. Both appear to be silver, one more tarnished and scraped that the other. He places them on the laptop.

You grab the spoon. You see his mother’s hand stirring long yellow beans in a pot before pouring a creamy sauce onto them, then it changes to different people, an older stove, another older stove. A black ceramic stove stirring gravy in a large heavy skillet.

“Your mother liked to use it for cooking yellow beans. It has been here for several hundred years, at least 300 based on the dress of the last man who had a beard was dressed.”

He looks down at the table and thinks a moment. “She loved wax beans. They look like green beans but taste a bit different. She would cook them in a sour and creamy sauce. She said the spoon was in the family for a long time. Now the knife.”

Taking the silver knife in your fingers it shows she used it nearly every day to put butter on rolls with jelly. There was a lot of time in the drawer, different users. Clothing styles changed. The age of the silver butterknife is closer to 450 or 500 years old.

You share your findings.

“I’m still not convinced.” Vincent reaches into his shirt, and pulls out a gold necklace with a ring hanging from it. A simple gold band with its necklace is placed with hesitation on the laptop. As he places it there your hand brushes against his glove.

“Your gloves are four months old, purchased at Baers and the saleslady had red hair. Just saying.” You clear your throat and take a sip of now too cold coffee.

Reaching for the ring your fingers touch it softly. Your mind is filled with its memories. He has it with him all the time, takes it off for nothing, then you see the crash, blood everywhere. You fall headfirst into the table. Vincent helps you sit back up in your seat as tears are streaming from your face.

“I…I am so sorry for your loss.” You choke and gasp as the tears fall from your eyes. “M-motorcycle crash. Five years ago. He would bring you little yellow flowers he picked from the side of the road.”

Vincent’s face lost all color. A tear fell to his cheek as he nodded. He took the necklace back and put it around his neck.

After a while he took the cups to the sink, “I think it is time to sleep.”

You nod and head to bed. For hours you lay there, unable to sleep as your mind plays back the last nine years of Vincent and his husband’s lives, together and apart. You should have refused to touch it, but you wanted him to believe. And now…now. You shake your head, turn over and stare at the wall again.

The alarm on your phone wakes you. You want to flee, leave this place. It is one thing when someone shares with you tragedies in the past, it is another to have them thrust upon you. You push yourself out of bed. You can make it through today. Once in the kitchen the coffee has just finished you reach to grab a cup. Seeing the two in the dish drainer, you carefully pick out the cup you used yesterday.

You find a note on the table that he has gone for a walk and to go through the boxes he has left in the living room. Grabbing a muffin from the counter you head to the boxes. Wearing glove you begin. A few interesting books, certainly a possibility to go into a collection, many of them simply too modern or of no interest to the museum in their current condition. A box of random items haphazardly placed into a wooden box. Some woodworking tools, chisels, a pocket watch that did not work but was several hundred years old. A coffee grinder, you would definitely need to check that out. Taking that and the watch you sit at the kitchen table. One by one you experience the history of the items. The pocket watch came from approximately 1300. The coins from the floor and jack knife were owned by Hubert’s father, Marquis Vestra. The coffee grinder, broken by a child, had belonged to Hubert at one time well after the war, during his retirement.

The bags from the child’s bedroom revealed two very different groups of items. Vincent himself had placed items in a pocket next to the ones he had originally discovered. Thinking they were a time capsule, he created one of his own including a letter about his 9 year old self, a green plastic army man named Lt. Schwartz, a yo yo and a few baseball cards. The other group of items were from a young girl. A cloth doll with a few wisps of hair still left on its head. A tiny gold ring. A slate and stylus used for writing letters and numbers, the wax long eaten away. A small carved wooden horse.

Deciding to see if there is anything in the last room as well as completing your inspection of the master bedroom, you take your half cup of coffee with you down the hallway. Coming to the end of the corridor, you hear a sound behind you. Turning slowly, you see the countenance of Hubert von Vestra walking toward you. Outfitted in his full Imperial dress uniform, his large stiff collar extends several inches up from his shoulders. A ruby red brooch holds down his cravat. You drown in the sound of leather creaking from his belts on his clothes and the swish of the heavy material of his jacket. His boots create a deep a thunking sound echoing down the hallway.

“Finally.” He says with great satisfaction. “It has been an eternity.” His right hand, void of gloves, reaches out to you, fingertips softly stroking your cheek. His pale skin is cool to the touch, it has always been that way, you think to yourself. He opens his arms welcoming you to be wrapped within them. Burying your nose in his chest you deeply inhale the familiar scent of coffee, parchment, ink and dark magic. How you have longed for this.

“What of Vincent?” you ask him, looking up into his beautiful yellow-green eyes sparkling down at you.

“We have come to an agreement.” Hubert chuckles.

The vibration of his chest, his deep laughter sends chills down your spine. After waiting nearly a thousand years to have him back in your arms the reward is so worth it.

Epilogue:

Each lifetime you searched for him, but your journeys were fruitless. This girl was the most cooperative, the most willing. You found her worse than Bernadetta in some aspects of her life, especially social. She shared this body, watching from behind, creating stories in her mind. You take control and immediately begin your plan. The museum holds his property, perhaps by touching these items you can call to him. Send a signal that you are here. But they would not let you touch the things that belonged to him. The display items you could reach, touch, were not his, only beautiful recreations. Even items held in storage at the museum were not his. You had developed a spell to obtain the history of an item by touch.

It was awful that you had to burn down part of the museum, but you needed access and you needed legitimate items. What people wouldn’t do to have their name on a placard as a donor. From the items donated several very real items were found. You found yourself touching them frequently, just to catch another glimpse of him. Your cohabitant could not take the violence, she caused you to faint so frequently. Perhaps now she may finalize her agreement with you, being released and then you and Hubert can finally have the lifetime together that was stolen from you during that horrible war.

You spoke often of death, war does that. Both agreed to move on and live the best life they could. Finding out Ferdinand was at his side made you happy, especially since it made him happy. Still, he had promised that no matter what, he would find you again and finish what was started. And so the rest of your lives begins…

[927roses-and-stuff]

Miracles in Gotham: Chapter 4: Unwelcome Discoveries (Part 2)

Hey, guys! This fic is inspired by @ozmav’s Maribat AU. Shoutout to @mystery-5-5 for brainstorming ideas with me for this fic. 

Woah, updating twice within the same week? It’s like I finally learned how to manage my time!... Not. Honestly this is my stress relief right now because I have two papers due tomorrow and those subjects are not as much fun to write about. On another note, I just finished my midterm and passed! So, yay! Anyways, hope you guys enjoy and have a little bit of luck come your way too. 

Btw, after you’re reading this can you guys please tell me if I’m writing too much angst after reading through this chapter??? I am writing what I think would logically happen in this type of scenario, but I also tend to be really pessimistic. 

If you want to see more, follow: #miraclesingotham or ask to be added to the tag list.

Tag list: @northernbluetongue @zerotosiki @spicybelladonna @my-name-is-michell @legendaryneckjudgestudent @lokiifriggasonn

First Previous Next Fanfic

By the time Marinette entered the classroom, her mood had lifted considerably from moments before. She sat at her usual seat and prepared her things as the rest of the class filed in. Her mood was slightly disrupted by a disgruntled Lila who roughly swept past her, but otherwise it seemed like today was finally going to be a normal day; well as normal as one could get in Paris, anyway. As the last remaining students settled in, Mme. Bustier walked into the room with a huge stack of papers. She settled them on her desk before addressing everyone. 

“Good morning, everyone!” 

“Good morning, Mme. Bustier,” the class parroted back in varying degrees of enthusiasm. Mme. Bustier smiled in satisfaction. 

“Now before we begin our usual morning exercise, I would like to call up Marinette and Alya to help me distribute these packages for you. I will give you a few minutes to look through it before discussing it further,” she said, as she split the pile of papers in half and handed one half to each girl. Marinette’s eyes bulged. The stack of papers consisted of multiple stacks of paper about twenty pages long each. She and Alya shared a glance before obeying Mme. Bustier’s orders. She started at Chloe and Sabrina’s desk and ended with Rose and Juleka at the back. Then, she returned to her seat, analyzing the stack of papers in front of her.

“Wayne Enterprises Sponsored International Connections Program in Gotham City, USA Information Package and Permission Forms”

After that was a bunch of paragraphs that Marinette skimmed over. The first few pages detailed what the program was for, their accommodations, costs for travel along with what necessary documents were needed, and all sorts of other details that made Marinette dizzy. The next few pages after that outlined the risks specific to Gotham and resources that students and their guardians were strongly recommended to review before even stepping onto Gotham grounds. The pages after that were permission forms asking for the legal guardian’s consent, her personal info, insurance, etc. 

Needless to say, the whole class was baffled. In fact, some of them were downright lost, considering they didn’t even know a Gotham City existed in the US. Or what Wayne Enterprises was supposed to be and why they were offered to join this program. Only Max and Alya seemed excited at the prospect of the field trip, judging on the excited murmurs that Marinette could hear. She picked up on the word “vigilantes” from Alya and “greatest detective” from somewhere behind her  and suddenly it all made sense. She wasn’t sure if she heard correctly, but she was pretty sure she heard Lila talking in self-assured whispers to the confused people around her. She held in a scoff, before returning her attention to the papers in front of her.

Marinette frowned, closing the package and pushing it away from her. She waited for Mme. Bustier to explain the details more clearly. Unfortunately, Marinette already knew there was no way she could go, at least, not without risking Paris’ safety. 

“If you have finished, please bring your attention to me. I will explain everything. Please leave all your questions till the end,” Mme. Bustier said, clapping her hands to get everyone’s attention. “As you may have noticed, this opportunity has been given to us by M. Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprises. He has chosen our school as a trial school for a program that he wants to implement next year to help expand student achievement nationally and internationally. As well as to encourage young students like yourselves to make connections with students from other countries. In fact, I believe it was Mayor Bourgeois who sent M. Wayne a glowing recommendation of our class from fundraising events to everyone’s extracurriculars and achievements! I am so proud of all of you.” 

At the front, Chloé straightened in her seat and smiled smugly. Beside her, Sabrina was looking from Chloé to the stack of papers in front of her in disbelief. The class was in a similar state of shock, and soon whispers erupted excitedly from most people in the class before Mme. Bustier silenced them all. 

Oh, that made sense, Marinette thought. Despite the sense of pride she felt for herself and the class (their hard work deserved some reward after all, especially with all the akumas recently), she knew Mayor Bourgeois was not the type of person to recommend just anyone from the goodness of his heart. He had recommended this class to M. Wayne for Chloé’s own success. Which was a bit of a shame, Marinette thought, since Chloé had more than enough resources to find opportunities for herself. However, she couldn’t help but feel grateful to whatever deity convinced Mayor Bourgeois to include the class, anyway.

“Anyways,” Mme. Bustier said when the class had calmed down. “I expect everyone here to listen to what I have to say and take it to heart.” Mme. Bustier’s voice settled lowered, her tone becoming dangerously low. “This program is a huge opportunity however, Gotham City is full of many risks and I am making it absolutely mandatory for everyone in this room, as well as their legal guardians to use the sources outlined under “Risks to be Aware of While in Gotham City” Section. While M. Wayne has assured the supervisors for the trip as well as M. Damocles that our accommodations will be in Gotham’s financial district, there is still going to be danger; more than what we’re accustomed to in Paris.” 

At the end of her spiel, the atmosphere in the room weighed heavy on Marinette. She had never seen Mme. Bustier so strict before, her teal eyes piercing through everybody in the room. 

“Um, Mme. Bustier?” Lila spoke and stood up. The class swivelled their attention to her. “I’ve actually been to Gotham City and have met M. Wayne before for a humanitarian project. I’m sure M. Wayne will make sure to do everything to keep us safe.” 

“That may be, Lila, but I assure you, these instructions were given to me by M. Wayne himself via email. He will do his best to make sure our trip is as safe as possible, but that means we need to do our part in keeping ourselves safe.” 

Blinking owlishly, Lila faltered. “Yes, of course, Mme. Bustier.” She forced a smile. “I was just saying so because it would be an absolute shame for anyone to miss out on such a great opportunity!” 

Marinette rolled her eyes. Sure, she thought. That, or she just wanted everyone to know that she knew Bruce Wayne- whoever he was- and be impressed.  At least she didn’t claim that she saved Bruce Wayne’s horse or something similar. Or claim to be friends with the vigilantes Alya had been fangirling about earlier.

The rest of the morning was spent going through the rest of the package from how to ensure that everyone had their visa, to what they should bring and how they should behave while they were there. Marinette frowned; there was something off about this trip. She wasn’t sure whether it was the duration of the trip ( which had a minimum of one month, with extra time being granted in case of any future interruptions), or why an American company would choose this specific French class for the trial program instead of a class in say, London, or any other country that spoke English. It seemed that Max was thinking along the same lines as her, because the moment Mme. Bustier finished, his hand shot up in the air. 

“Yes, Max?” 

“I have a few questions concerning this program. Why is there a minimum allotted time for our stay? Would our parents need to agree to any extension of staying? And how are we supposed to communicate or even understand anything when most of us don’t speak English?” 

Mme. Bustier smiled. “Those are all excellent questions. As I have said before, Gotham City is dangerous so there might be trips that are part of the program that will need to be rescheduled or we may need to take a later flight in case anything happens at the airport. Therefore, we need to be aware that our trip may last longer than the required month. Next, while we are there, you will be put in remedial English classes along with any classes you choose to take at Gotham Academy for the duration of our stay. This way, you will have the opportunity to brush up your English skills.” 

Alya was quick to stand up and shoot her hand in the air. “Will we be going on any field trips outside of Gotham City? Like Metropolis?” 

Mme. Bustier stared at her. “Maybe, but as for now, all details of the trip are included in the itinerary in your packages.” 

Alya deflated, slumping in her seat. Marinette turned toward her and whispered, “What’s so special about Metropolis?”

She perked up and whispered excitedly. “It’s the home of Superman, Booster Gold and Blue Beetle!” Marinette had absolutely no clue -nor any real desire to know- who those were. It didn’t seem to matter as Alya rambled on. “And, and, and, it’s also the home to Pulwitzer prize-winning journalist Lois freaking Lane  from the Daily Planet. I love her. I think I told Nino once that I would leave him for her (Nino gave an affirmative “uh huh”) if the opportunity ever arose and he said he wouldn’t mind as long as he could be with Superman. But that’s alright because Lois Lane is a badass and I love her; she is a genius-” 

“Ahem.” Mme. Bustier coughed. Alya stopped mid-speech and laughed sheepishly. Her voice must have been louder than she realized.

“Sorry Mme. Bustier.” 

“No problem, Alya. Just keep your excitement until the end of class.” She smiled softly. “And, I will see if I can mention your love for Lois Lane to M. Wayne.”

The way Alya froze in her seat, her jaw unhinged and wide eyes, Marinette wasn’t sure if she was in normal shock or if Mme. Bustier had actually managed to kill her with words. She chuckled before nudging her side to bring her back to reality. Shaken out of her stupor, Alya thanked Mme. Bustier and sat in her seat. Her smile was record-breakingly wide and she seemed to vibrate in place. 

Letting out a giggle, Marinette was ecstatic for her best friend. Sure, she may not know the superheroes she mentioned, and still wasn’t too sure of who Lois Lane was, but Alya looked like she won a million euros and meeting her idol would be a great opportunity. As Alya continued to freak out however, she shared glances between Adrien and Nino in front of her and had to stifle their laughter. 

Maybe if Alya did meet Lois Lane and Superman, and Gotham vigilantes, she could share her excitement with Marinette when the class returned to Paris. 

The rest of the day had been pretty normal, with the addition of excitement in the air as her class discussed the trip to Gotham. Students from other classes seemed to be split between being jealous of the class for the opportunity, or relieved at the foreseeable absence of what they dubbed as “the akuma class.” Students from her own class huddled together in their small groups, already planning on what they wanted to do, what they thought Gotham would be like, and how they were excited to meet any cute Americans. Marinette couldn’t help but let their excitement affect her as well. Not only was going abroad always a cause for excitement but surely it was a relief to be able to leave Paris in the foreseeable future. It was exhausting being targeted by stupid demonic butterflies and sucking up your feelings like they didn’t exist (Unless you were Lila, then you cried and let everyone worry about your emotional state and any akumas that could come from it, that is). However, Marinette had a feeling that this trip to Gotham would stir a lot of drama within their class, when everyone had the chance to reveal any negative emotions without the consequence of an akuma around. 

Well, that was that, she supposed as she went home for the lunch break, the permission forms tucked under her arm. She had been half tempted to chuck them in a bin somewhere, but knew her parents would be pissed if she didn’t tell them. Thus, she entered the bakery and once there was a lull in the orders, asked both of her parents if they could talk. 

She led them upstairs in the living room and placed the bundle of papers on the dining room table. Marinette briefly explained the program and let them read through the package carefully. By the time they finished, Marinette only had an hour left of her two hour lunch break. 

“So?” She prompted, trying to gauge their reactions. 

Her maman and dad exchanged a glance and nodded, before turning back to her. 

“You’re definitely going.” Her maman said, putting the package back on the table. 

Marinette’s jaw dropped. “Wait, Maman, don’t you need some more time to think about this?” She couldn’t believe it. She should’ve chucked the package in a bin. 

Her dad frowned. “Marinette, we don’t like it either, and it’s not...ideal, but we believe it’s for the best if you stay away from Paris for now.” 

Marinette’s eyes widened, glancing back and forth between her maman and dad. “What do you mean?” 

Her maman sighed. “Ever since we almost got akumatized on the day you were expelled, me and your father have been talking, and well, Paris isn’t safe for you anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

Her dad nodded in agreement. Marinette felt befuddled. She felt like she definitely lost a few brain cells. 

“Gotham City isn’t safe either, Maman, Papa. Didn’t you see the risks listed?” Marinette asked, grabbing the package and desperately scouring through the package. This was so not happening; she couldn’t afford to leave Paris. 

She heard a sigh coming from her maman, before her hands settled on Marinette’s own. Marinette glanced up to stare at her maman’s cloudy grey gaze. “It’s definitely not ideal, and we wish you were somewhere safer, but I trust that M. Wayne and the school administration would never have allowed this to happen if it was too risky.” 

“But-” 

“And, “ her dad interjected before Marinette could continue. “If this hadn’t come up, we would’ve sent you away with your grandmère and you would’ve had to pause your schooling and travel around Europe with her until it was safe to come back home.” 

“Or,” her maman added, giving Tom a small glare. “We would’ve sent you to Shanghai with your uncle Wang. At least this way, you can continue with your schooling and still be with your friends under the maximum amount of protection.” 

Her breathing turned heavy at her words. Her heart was beating faster, was it just her imagination or did it feel like the room was stuffier than before. She didn’t understand. Why now? They had been planning to send her away. She pressed a hand against her chest to try to control her breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. It had been a calming trick Master Fu had shown her when she had been at the edge of getting an anxiety attack. 

Not for the first time, Marinette wished she could just tell her parents she was Ladybug. Then again, maybe that would’ve motivated them further to get her out of Paris. 

No, her maman and papa loved her. They just wanted her to be safe. They weren’t aware she’d been taking care of Paris all this time. 

She felt her maman’s warm presence beside her as her papa engulfed them both. She barely registered the apologies her maman whispered as she stroked her hair. She was too busy pushing down all her anxieties. 

She couldn’t risk getting akumatized. 

Her lunch break had been long over by the time she had calmed down. By then, both her maman and papa had returned to the bakery with promises that they would talk about this tomorrow and that they would call the school to report her absence for the afternoon. 

Marinette barely registered them as she trudged up to her bedroom. Then her bathroom. Shower. Dry hair. Change of clothes. Bed. 

She didn’t know what to feel. She didn’t notice the kwamis flying towards her and snuggling with her, in her hair and the crook of her neck. 

“What do I do?” She asked listlessly. 

Tikki floated to her field of vision. “Marinette. It’ll be okay.” 

“How?” 

Tikki didn’t give an answer. She sighed and sat up. She was going to write in her diary until she read her last entry. Right. Marianne. She sighed. She’d call her and then go on an early patrol of the city. 

She didn’t want the helplessness that came with being Marinette.

Taking a long, deep breath, she grabbed her tablet and called Marianne through video chat. Surprisingly, despite her age, Marianne adapted to technology pretty well. She and Master Fu were living somewhere in London, enjoying their retirement together. Marinette liked to keep up with them regularly, since she missed Master Fu, and their present now gave her hope for her own future. 

She waited for the screen to load, and smiled widely when Marianne’s face entered the screen. She looked like she had just gotten home; the makeup she was wearing was starting to fade, and her hair was tied in a slightly wet updo bun.

“Marinette! Bonjour! How have you been, darling?” Marinette noticed that she had adopted a slight British accent when she talked. It hadn’t been that long since they last talked, so maybe her and Master Fu had been going out more. 

“Bonjour Marianne.” She softly waved her hand. “Everything’s fine actually. How are you and Master Fu?”

Marianne smiled, re-focusing her own screen so Marinette could see her more clearly. “Everything’s been great. Wang has taken to liking massage parlors again. We just visited one yesterday.” 

Marinette smiled fondly. She could feel Wayzz’s presence on her shoulder as he listened intently. If anyone had been more devastated than Marinette about Master Fu’s amnesia and departure, it would have been Wayzz. It had taken a long time for him to open up to Marinette and the other kwamis, often leaving the Oolong tea she brewed for him to run cold. Fortunately, he was getting better and opening up more. Their love for Master Fu had been what helped he and Marinette bond together as a new Guardian and kwami. 

“I’m glad. It seems like you two are really happy.” 

Marianne squinted her eyes; she could feel her gaze through the screen. “Why did you call, Marinette?”

“I, ah, had a question about the Miraculous actually. I was wondering if your time with Master Fu before had given you any insight to them.” 

Marianne frowned slightly, rubbing her chin. “I’ve picked up on a few things, but Wang was really secretive. I’ll give it my best shot for you, dear.” 

“Thank you! I was wondering if you had any clue as to why the Miracle Box turned into an egg when Master Fu renounced his Guardianship to me?” 

Marianne sighed. “I wish I could tell you, but I’m as lost as you are.” 

She deflated. Her hands gripped the tablet tighter. She knew there was only a miniscule chance that Marianne would’ve known anything, but a tiny part of her had hoped that luck would be on her side. Exhaling, Marinette thanked her. 

On the other side of the screen, Marianne’s frown deepened. As happy as she was with Wang Fu, it was cruel for destiny to hand such a young child the enormous and numerous responsibilities that the Guardian had to bear. She glanced at Wang, who was sleeping on the couch contentedly. She was happy they could now spend the rest of their lives together in peace when most of it had been previously spent in war. 

Speaking of war… 

“Marinette, darling! I think I might know of someone who can help you!” 

Marinette perked up. She had been about to change the subject or close the call, but maybe she had a bit of luck on her side after all. 

“Who?” 

“During the war, when Wang and I escaped to Paris, we were aided by someone who would become one of our closest friends. When he was recruited to battle in the war, he was very young, so Wang had lent him the Snake Miraculous for its powers of Intuition, at least until the war was over.” 

Marinette felt Wayzz stiffen on her shoulder. 

“She doesn’t mean…”

“Unfortunately,” Marianne continued. “When he returned home, he had an argument with Wang and almost didn’t return the Miraculous. It was only a month later that he left it on our doorstep. We haven’t heard from him since, but maybe he might know something. He was always a genius and intuitive beyond his years.” 

Marinette frowned. “Do you know where he might be now?” 

“His name is Alfred Pennyworth. He mentioned once that his family had a tradition of serving a family called the Waynes.” 

Marinette’s frown deepened. There was the name Wayne again. Which meant Gotham. It felt like the universe really wanted her to go there. She sighed. At least she’d have an objective while she was there- if she did go in the first place. She smiled again, once she saw Marianne’s worried stare. 

“Thank you so much, Marianne. I need to go now and plan what to do. I hope you and Master Fu stay well.” 

Marianne smiled. “You too, Marinette. Don’t hesitate to call me for anything, dear.” 

She merely nodded, and they both logged off. She set aside her tablet and turned to face Sass, who was already in front of her. 

“Tell me everything you know about this Alfred Pennyworth and your time with him, Sass. I need to know if he can help before considering everything.” 

The snake kwami merely nodded. “Of course, my Guardian.”

[wenevergotusedtoegypt]

This coworker emailed me yesterday asking me to post a video to Youtube for her. We have had a policy for quite some time now that requires a particular, one-sentence-long piece of information be given to me along with such a request, and that I can’t put the video up until I receive that. Lest she have missed when that policy was generally announced, I had already explained it to her twice in the past less than 2 months, and both times she acted like it was a totally weird, out-of-left-field request. So of course, this time she....also did not include this simple piece of information that only takes 5 extra seconds or so  to include, which is highly typical of her overall attitude that she and her department are above everything and should be able to do whatever they want however they want. 

Normally, I would’ve responded with a matter-of-fact, “As we’ve spoken about a couple times recently, unfortunately I can’t upload any videos without [required info]. Please send me that and I will be happy to get that up for you,” which I personally think is a perfectly adequate and restrained response to someone who is ignoring the same not-even-inconvenient-or-time-consuming policy for the 3rd time in less than 2 months. But this is the lady who earlier this year got in trouble for stopping a meeting to publicly demand I turn my camera on or provide an explanation for why it was off, and she’s had it out for me ever since looking for any and every way to try to get me in trouble, so I’ve been instructed by my boss that even though she acknowledges I have done literally nothing wrong, I should go out of my way to be extra friendly and flowery with my language when speaking to this person so as not to give her an in to complain.

Anyway I wrote this whole ridiculous, IMO stupidly passive-aggressive paragraph about how I “hate to sound like a broken record” because you keep putting me in a position where I have to repeat this policy over and over and I “know it might seem tedious” or anyway I assume that’s how you feel because  you can’t be bothered to type the 1 simple sentence that is just a statement of information you already have without needing to do anything but I do need that statement as we’ve previously discussed blablabla sorry it’s so annoying literally it’s not though the annoying thing is that I keep having to  have this conversation when I could have already uploaded this for you in about 2 seconds if you had included the info l’chatchila. My boss was CC’ed on her original email  (because apparently CCing someone’s supervisor on emails about small routine tasks that have nothing to do with said supervisor and that said supervisor doesn’t need to know about is a thing this lady does but I’m the rude one? ok) so I kept her on.

It’s been almost 24 hours and Lady has not replied to me despite replying to a different email chain I was on, so I’m basically assuming she’s forwarded my reply to her supervisor to complain or something since all she has to do is write one simple sentence back and I can get this video posted for her. Which is cute if so because my boss took the time to reply to me privately to tell me she “loves this email” and that I “really hit the stern but friendly tone right on” and also I’m leaving in less than 2 months max.

[awbrainno]

i.

It rankles. It itches, burns, rubs up against my PTSD and my contrary nature. It’s infuriating, sure; it pisses me off, just like almost everything does. But it’s more than just infuriating: it’s terrifying.

I am not self-sufficient. I am not an island. I am not self-reliant, and I never will be.

My entire existence relies on my ability to suck up to those who may deign to help me. Doctors, teachers, supervisors, coworkers – I am at their mercy. It’s more than just being nice or being respectful. My survival depends on being exactly the right kind of dancing monkey, entertaining and non-threatening and properly cowed, properly humbled in the presence of my betters.

Sometimes, a nurse once told me, we have to eat crow. I was trying to self-advocate, to explain, to ask why the doctor hadn’t done as she’d promised. Sometimes we have to eat crow, the nurse scolded me. Be more properly grateful, more acceptably humble. Your doctor doesn’t have to help you, you know. You should show her some respect.

People with access to resources and knowledge I desperately need dangle them just out of my reach. “Maybe,” they sneer, “you should ask nicely.” I do not correct the police as they misgender me because I want to leave here unharmed. I do not speak up when my coworkers and bosses refuse to learn my pronouns, my title, do not speak up when they glare and sneer and demean the junkie trash, the whores, the psychos. I am admonished, given a warning – my email greetings are not respectful enough. I must treat lightly if I want the powers that be at my job to continue to deign to assist me.

I am helpless. My shoulder dislocated, I smile placidly at the cop who cuffed me. My gender a dull, constant ache deep in my soul, I write out polite, charming personalized greetings to my superiors. My brain broken and constantly in recovery, I quietly turn away, pretending not to hear coworkers laughing at psychos.

There is no place I belong. There is no safe space. I bow and scrape and beg, desperate for any scrap of kindness, desperate for access into a wider world. I bring my service dog, but we are turned away.

My world is shrinking. I wish I were shrinking to match.

ii.

This is how we burn out. This is how burnout propagates, reproduces, becomes a raging wildfire of despair, of anger, of hurt. This is how we burn out.

We begin by wanting to help – its so simple, so unassuming, so naïve. We begin by wanting to help, to do a good job. We begin this way and are greeted warmly and told to reach out for help, reach out for support, to reach out because we are a team, and no one can do this alone. This is how we begin. We begin by reaching out, by asking questions, by requesting help. We have high hopes, at the beginning.

It begins the first time help is not forthcoming. There will be no explanation, though there may be an admonishment, a scolding; yes, they will say, reach out, but do so in exactly this way, exactly this tone; be humble and be respectful and be constantly aware that you are nothing. You are needy and you are no one, so show some g-ddamn respect.

It begins when the humble, needy begging, the carefully cultivated persona, kneeling at the feet of those in power, is not enough. No one responds, no one reciprocates, no one deems us worthy of their time. It begins when we realize we are nothing in their eyes, and no amount of placating them will ever render us worthy.

We begin to burn, tired of begging and scraping and kneeling. We give up hope, exchange optimism for harsh realities, for learned helplessness, for frustration, for rage. We burn, our efforts pointless and no end in sight. We burn out like this, like pile-on principle, like a lifetime of failures and pointless endeavors.

We burn out, ultimately, alone. We burn out resigned. We burn out in pieces, until nothing of us remains. We burn down to ashes. We burn, and we burn, and still we keep throwing our broken bodies into the fire. We burn because we have no choice, no options, no hope.

This is how we burn out.

iii.

Burnout is a strange concept for me. I’m… not sure what it means, really. We talk about it in classrooms

make sure you take care of yourself, you don’t want to burn out

but never really define it. Come to think of it, we don’t really define the other part, either: “take care of yourself.” What does that mean?

she’s going to have to get over herself if she wants to like, exist in the real world…

We talk, in my social work classrooms, about self-care and burnout. We talk about self-care as if it is a flame-retardant suit, or some kind of magical fireproof sunscreen: apply enough self-care every day to ensure you don’t burn to ash.

I’ve seen things you can’t even imagine, working in this field

But try to define self-care and you get the same responses, over and over, repeated verbatim from abled mouths and neurotypical minds: take a long walk. Get enough exercise. Use a fancy lotion. Relax, journal, sing, talk with friends, put your burden down and walk away from it. Care for yourself – simple. 

so… it’s a therapy dog? For your clients?

We talk about burnout in terms of The Work – always capital letters, always job-related but separate from the job. We are social workers, getting jobs and doing work so that we can do The Work. This phrase, this mantra, this all-important Sisyphean task set before us is, predictably, never defined. We are social workers; we do The Work.

don’t you have class this morning? Why are you still in bed?

I am not in school any longer. I am a social worker, employed, working, doing (I think) The Work. Still, I think about these things, these concepts that dominated my education. These big ideas, undefined, nebulous, all-important and impossible to understand. I wonder if it is only my broken brain, making things more difficult for me as usual. Self-care. Burnout. The Work. 

it’s important to have a good work-life balance so you don’t burn out

Some days, my self-care looks almost neurotypical. Some days I take a bath, or eat a chocolate, or pet my dog, and I feel… better, I think. It’s hard to tell. I’m not neurotypical, and I’m not able-bodied, and I’m never going to achieve that level of “healthy.” Self-care can’t get me there, but I can feel… better. Other days, my self-care is less like a suit of fire-proof armor and more like burn cream, trying to undo the damage already done by all the ways I’m already burning out in my day-to-day life, trying to patch me up so I can go to work and do The Work.

social work isn’t for everyone: we have to ask ourselves, really ask ourselves, if we’re suited for The Work

Some days I’m more burn than person, more ash than human, more smoke than breath. Some days I think I’ve failed, I’ve burned, I’m finished. Somehow, I keep going anyway. What choice do I have?

watch out for each other – the last thing we want is for anyone to burn out

What choice do I have?

[cosmosogler]

hi guys! i got home after 9. so i am six minutes late starting this post. 10:06 i mean.

anyway god dang it! i forgot my dream again. i think i was thinking about math and statistics though. numbers are super hard in dreams though because all the information changes and melts between instants.

i got up at a reasonable time- 7:40. still got out of the shower super late though. i’m not even sure what takes so long! maybe it’s because i brush my teeth and blow dry my hair and everything in that span of time so it’s not just “hopped in the shower at 7:50 and oH GOD IT’S 8:15.”

i tried to have a bigger breakfast than usual- i had a bagel and some bacon i put in the microwave. and a big glass of orange juice. i watched snoopy roll around in a patch of sunlight while i ate. 

then i biked to campus a little late. i was super thankful that the light on the busy road happened to turn green right as i approached. if you miss it it’s a 2-minute wait for the next cycle.

i used my lecture notes today when i started the lab period!!! people started working on their labs while i was talking though and i got a little discouraged. i’ll need to ask for feedback over email i think. maybe it’s still good to lecture so that the people who already know what’s going on can get started while the people who are still a little confused have some basis to start from.

some questions really get me turned around though. i feel kinda stupid when i have to check my notes on the lab to answer a question like “but are the forces REALLY always equal and opposite?” because i think i know an exception but really no i don’t. and then i have to explain why there are no exceptions and i try to draw on some experiences as an undergrad ta but i only remember half-sentences and bits of anecdotes and i have to try to string them together into a coherent explanation that is catered toward intro physics courses.

i’m always exhausted afterward. i really give it everything even though i’m not the best ta.

i got scolded by my supervisor for getting suzanne to help me fix one of the computers when i couldn’t find him. what had happened was, i saw him talking to suzanne out the door earlier since the lab is across from the office. when i needed to find him i checked his office first, didn’t find him, and asked suzanne if she knew where he went. when she said the other side of the building she also offered to take a look because she’d been having a couple computer problems too on monday. 

but a few problems i did fix myself fairly quickly. i don’t mind troubleshooting, but sometimes i have to stand there and process information and i get quiet and kind of stare into space and don’t move and then i feel dumb because i’m not actually thinking using any words. 

maybe those are less “processing” thoughts and more “racing circular” thoughts.

ehhh afterward i went to my lab office hour. one of my students with the computer issues was in there trying to finish. he didn’t though. 

during my office session i received an email from the grad advisor. he said every single first year grad student needed to be at a meeting right now. it was the end of my session anyway so i packed up and went over to the office to see if anyone else had caught the email. 

they were actually all discussing it with an older graduate student. jennica was scrolling through every email she’s received on the student account to try and find any previous information about the meeting. there was none. 

we talked about it for a few minutes before the older grad student went up to talk to him. jennica and harrison and i went to get some lunch and i picked a smoothie up for rebika.

actually that was funny. i asked her what kind she wanted and she said “i don’t know” so i said there were like a hundred and i would have to pick one at random so she better be okay with kale. she said whatever so jennica found an online random number generator.

anyway while we were out we got another email from the grad coordinator. this one was really passive aggressive and sent to the whole department about how no one showed up and the lady making the presentation had “come all the way across campus.”

i said “???” because this was well after the situation had been explained to him. i’m not sure why he was so mean about it when it was his mistake. we had literally never heard about this before and he told us to be there one minute before it started.

eventually suzanne found a reminder for it on her phone. we had to hack it to find out when she had actually set that reminder to give us an idea of where we might have heard about it. 

it was during our “graduate welcome” presentation back in the middle of august. it wasn’t written down anywhere. it had just been mentioned in passing and suzanne made a note of it in her phone because it sounded interesting. not because we knew it was required.

my classmates complained that we’d never gotten any reminders for it but i was more annoyed that we hadn’t received any written notification of the event in the first place.

after that we studied a lot. i talked about some problems, fudged some math on the blackboard, and scribbled some stuff down on the homework problems i’d printed.

harrison has started telling me to “stop talking” whenever i say something depressing. jennica picked up on it pretty fast too. 

during coffee/cookie time at 3:30 ish i was chatting with one of the upper classmen aboutttt star trek i think it was. i’ve never watched it but i know... enough to talk about it i guess. i ended up having a fun discussion with taylor about the boundary between sci fi and fantasy when he said star wars was the superior sci fi story.

i said it was based on how heavily it leaned thematically on hard science and logic to inform its worldbuilding. taylor said it depended on the setting.

anyway i was talking to the guy and i was maybe talking about how i’d burned myself on my tea and also spilled some on my shirt because i’d burned my face and flinched violently. i said “thank you for listening to my problems” and jennica was all “don’t get her started, oh god, unless you want to be depressed.” 

i laughed and said “hey did i ever tell you about the time i broke my ribs?” and that got, i guess, a surprised laugh out of him. jennica gave me a Look. “just kidding, my ribs were too soft to break then,” i said apologetically-but-not-really.

i really relate to that short homestuck comic about dave talking about how his bro would leave him in the ball pit when they went to the store. except the ball pit was a slab of concrete in a dark room.

ok! i said my last prayers for the physics midterm and then at about 5:30 jennica and i played five rounds of love letters, adventure time edition. we were going to 3 wins and it stayed pretty close. i admitted that it’s a lot more active with three players and four gets to be a little too much. she seemed to like it well enough at least.

then at 6:05-ish i dumped all my trail mix in my mouth and turbo biked over to the drc to take my Accommodated Test in their Testing Facility. i almost got hit by a car while i was in the crosswalk. i was crossing at the same time as another bike, but as soon as he was past and i was approaching the end of the road, a driver slammed on the gas and i had to actually for real hard brake. i stared at her as she passed, she made eye contact with me. i don’t know why she did that if she saw me.

guess i’ll just go screw myself.

anyway i got there about fifteen minutes before the test was gonna start. there was trouble with the check-in devices so i was glad i got there early. i had time to get settled and put my stuff away and brush my hair a little bit to get the helmet tangles out.

then i took the test for two and a half hours! i was allotted three, and my classmates had two, so i think i made good use of the extra time and didn’t panic too hard.

i’d felt super sleepy and lethargic all day. the test wasn’t much better. but... i recognized all the problems at least. and i knew how to start all of them. and i had enough time to finish to my satisfaction.

i’m not gonna say i did well on the test. but i did way better than if i hadn’t studied. which is kind of a given, but. i think i tried more study strategies this time and asked for more help and maybe that made a difference. can’t say. i had no particular feeling about it when i looked over my work. i noted where i knew what i was doing and where i’d forgotten something, and where i’d probably made a mistake but had no idea what to do instead, and i really have no idea how i did.

i think biking home right after that though did a lot toward helping me not die of lack of energy. i had to bike up the big hill because of where i was leaving campus. that was ok though, i got up in no time at all! in third gear, even!!!

then i got home, and took out the trash, and devoured an ice cream sandwich, and then made some dinner. and then i sat down at my desk for 20 minutes, did a little e&m homework, sent some emails, and started writing, and then here i am. 

five minutes left. i will try to talk about something good about me. 

i uh... i was gonna talk about something ta-related but i can’t think of anything right now that i actually like about my method haha.

i’ve made a lot of progress this last week toward finding a study strategy that works for me. i know i have to use more than one of the study style fields to really learn material. two is good, three is better, four is overwhelming. i know that i am learning material on the backburner even if i don’t consciously feel like i understand anything because i look at some problems and i’m like “oh! i know what that is!” 

still having trouble remembering relationships between equations. but i think that will get better the more time i spend looking stuff up over and over. like i really Get the yukawa potential and how that one equation basically provides a link between classical mechanics and e&m, and that’s so cool.

tomorrow i’ve got group therapy and it’s SPAGHETTI DAY. AGAIN!!!!!! but i also gotta start studying for that e&m test on friday. i need to figure out how to do that. maybe i will find and talk to adamya since he was helping suzanne the other day. 

ok. it is 10:45. i will stop writing now and meditate for a few minutes and then go to bed. i need to get up a few minutes early to pick up a package. i think it is either the rest of my stuff i’ve been trying to get my parents to send for the last month, or it’s the cat food that i’m glad i ordered when i did and not a day later.

later guys, i hope you are well. drink more water.